Well That's a Fine Howdoyoudo!
by QueenOfSpain
Summary: NEW CHAPTER for REAL this time ! Its the dark explanation to Holmes' past AU . Set in present day england, Andrew Holmes gets the case of his life with Sabina Picard, a fiction writer with a deadly talent. The rating is for foul language.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Well howdy again, y'all! Here's a lovely story set in present day. If I seem to trail, I appologize in advance, but I've been having to read Faulkner lately and a bit of the existentialist seems to rub off. ...Nonsensical bastard.**

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The regularity almost suffocated him, Andrew Holmes noted with some bitterness as he threw down the paper in disgust. Here he was, standing before the hearth, like his father before him and grandfather before that…et cetera, as though generation flowed into the next generation with narry a change. There's nothing like having to live up to your forefathers to make one feel like less than individual.The fire in the hearth blazed in a futile attempt to keep out the London damp cold, a cold that chilled him to the bone on this unforgiving, uneventful day and since the rag of a newspaper held nothing of particular interest to him, he was doomed to succumb to London's fury.

He wandered about his lavish apartment restlessly, like a caged animal, trapped both physically and mentally. How long had it been? Days? Weeks? Months since his last job? It was all the same to him, really – Lack of stimulation caused his mind to rebel; a human weakness of which he could never rid himself and weakness was a thing intolerable. His recent bullet wound smarted and as he limped back to his armchair, his sour mood soured further. Who would have guessed that a simple projectile would call for so much recovery?

A knock resounded from the door. It had to be the good doctor Watson, no doubt, making sure that James hadn't angered the wound any. "The door's open," he growled.

"Are you decent?"

"Well of course I'm decent! What do you think, I…" and as he turned to face the door, annoyance and sourness melted away into one single angelic word: "…Sabina."

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**A/N: As we all know,I tend to post things without a second thought. I basically start something, then abandon it. Hopefully (and depending on response :3 ), I'll post chapter after chapter until this sucker wraps up. If any of y'all have suggestions on where you'd like this to go, go ahead and tell me, because frankly, I'm not so sure myself.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: First thing – thanks for the reviews! Zantetsuken, thanks for the offer! I'll probably be taking you up on it. Gypsy, thanks for the support! Next thing – I've decided to try a new writing style: mainly, I write short chapters more often. There are a few reasons for this – I find it a bit more interesting and I write this during class, so I write and post immediately. If you're hankering for longer chapters, please let me know. I love feedback, and constructive criticism. **

Two years ago, as the warm breeze ruffled new grass and newly blossomed cherry trees filled the field with fragrant petals, Andrew Holmes purposefully ignored it. Long nose stuck in the latest book (Dan Brown, to be exact), Holmes was engrossed in his own world. He liked it this way, of course – the solitude seemed to fit him. Besides, Brown presented controversial theories that Holmes' logic couldn't help but dissect, piece by piece.

Jacket thrown upon a tree branch with the accompanying tie, he was comfortable and free of society's stuffy restraints. He ignored his appearance as well, with his black hair in his eyes and disheveled suit. To the Englanders, he was just another lazy twenty-something, but to Sabina Picard, he was a fascinating specimen of study.

"Andrew Holmes," she whispered under her breath as she pulled out that day's newspaper. Sure enough, Holmes was on the front page, under a headline that screamed something of a scandal. According to her logic, he must be a fascinating character, so she pulled out a much worn notebook and jotted her first impressions, romanticizing some facets while scientifically catching others. He would be her muse, she thought, and as she twirled a pen into her long blonde locks, she resolved to know him.

Just as Holmes was puzzling over female divinity, he slowly began feeling a change in environment. He turned his head…and jumped like someone had lit a firecracker under his bum. "What the…who are you!"

Sabina, who had been reading over his shoulder for a half an hour, told him as much and added, "Come and sit back down! I was just getting to the part about Mary! Good book, this one. American?"

"Well, yes, Dan Brown is an American, and actually…hey!" Holmes was a man easily sidetracked. "What kind of a loon reads over complete strangers' shoulders?"

"What kind of a loon doesn't notice for half an hour?"

"Touché. So, um…," he raked his fingers through his hair, screwed up his face in nervous indecision and eventually came out with, "What do you want?" Holmes grew used to all sorts of crazy once he became a local star of sorts, but after he did a small favor for the government, he turned into an international superstar, complete with screaming fan girls. The media knew no difference between the stars of CSI and real detectives, so they spared him no publicity. His face covering every magazine, Holmes was hailed the hottie of the British nation. Apparently, girls couldn't resist his penetrating blue-gray eyes. The journalists became a problem as well, as each wanted the exclusive scoop to this handsome, private and complex man. Noting the pen in Sabina's hair, his spirits immediately fell. "If you're a journalist, I'm not talking."

"Actually, I'm more of the fiction type." She stuck her hand out, boldly. "Sabina Picard." He grasped it, warily. "Are you opposed to a few questions?"

He sighed. If he said yes, then he would be hounded for the rest of the day, and if he said no, there was annoyance. Either way, the solitude was broken. "No. Ask away."

And ask she did, rapid fire. Question after specific question, Sabina created a profile, scribbling away in her notebook furiously in an unintelligible short hand. She smiled to herself in the knowledge that this Andrew would be her next mystery star. While she grilled him for gritty details of unspecific cases (confidentiality agreements allowed for no names), Sabina played up his looks – gorgeous enough to make a woman swoon, but cases with grit enough to attract a male audience as well. The best of both worlds, best seller material. Little did she know, she would get exactly the fandom she desired with consequences neither could dream of.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Check this out - another update! I'm p. awesome with the posting business. Thanks for the reviews Zan, An, Es, and Gypsy! I'm glad y'all stuck through chapter 2. I'm also glad the short chap thing is something no one minds. A little clarification: Holmes is still an independent detective, not an actor. With the short chapters, I tend to make many more context mistakes and now that I read it, that passage doesn't say what I want it to. Sorry about that - my bad. Also, I'm having a bad format day, so please excuse the crap. And so, without further ado, here's chapter 3!**

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Sabina exercised "getting into the writing zone" as though it were a ritual and the value of the work to follow depended solely on external variables. Cup of coffee in the left, fine point Pilot pen in the right, she settled into a pillow and flipped open her hardcover notebook. Today was especially important: the beginning of her newest mystery. The last book received considerable recognition, but never made it to the bestseller list. This next one would be different, however, as she as certain of her lead character as her plot, and the previous fame would draw the readers. 

_Fate_, she decided happily. _Fate that I would meet Andrew and fate that I'll write a best seller_. She blushed – a rare occurrence – as she thought back on their meeting. Raven hair fluttering in the breeze, his scrunched up nose when he was struggling for an answer, and that intense look of concentration over a book…but surely he wouldn't favor a girl like her? She shook all romantic ideas from her head. She was supposed to be in "the zone", not pining like a harlequin romance. _Dead puppies and cigarettes, highballs_…and she had induced herself into thinking like a dockworker, but not before mischievousness got the best of her, and she profiled herself into the second lead – living out her fantasies in a safe, controllable world.

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Many furious pages later, Sabina was rudely snapped out of her trance by a fierce pounding at the door. She uncrossed her stiff legs and cursed softly as pain shot up them for lack of blood. Hobbling toward the door, she grumbled, "This had better be worth my time."

The intruder didn't say a word once Sabina opened the door and thrust the front page of _The Times_ in her face as a way of greeting. The header shouted, "SECOND MURDER MAY BE SERIAL". "Hm, that's odd," she noted as she skimmed. "Thanks for today's paper, by the way. I haven't had the chance to pick it up yet." She wandered as she read, settling at last at her writing spot, not even bothering to look up and greet the intruder.

Deep, rough Cockney rang out with, "Gimme aw youw money and maybe awi won't kiw you."

"Sonuvabitch!" Sabina leaped up. "Please don't…you bastard, I should stick a knife in your ribs!"

Holmes shrugged and said, in his normal accent, "Serves you right for not checking on who you let into your house."

"Murderers don't exactly knock me up every day."

He raised an eyebrow. "And detectives?"

"…Whatever!" She knew he was right and therefore, she swallowed her pride. "I'm assuming you didn't bring the paper only because I'm an avid reader."

"Correct. Read the article carefully."

She performed the task as requested, but once she had finished, she looked up bewildered. "So there was another murder, supposedly the work of a serial killer. Isn't this more your concern than mine?"

He didn't give her any indication, except "Read closer."

She began again, this time reading slower, and as she did so, she paled to a sickly color. Mouth dry, she could only squeak out, "My god." Then a deep breath, followed by, "I wrote that. This is…my fault." Bile rose in her throat and the most horrible moment in Sabina's history ended with her in the bathroom.

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**And the plot thickens! How'd you like a longish chapter? Hopefully, I'll have more for tomorrow, but I can't promise much on that end, because I have a final tomorrow, and I'll be pretty wiped of brain power. I'll give it a go, though ;)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Oh my goodness duckies, it's been a while since I've posted! I blame school in all its uselessness and time consumption! I like how I posted 3 chapters, saying that I'll post everyday and then…didn't. The good news is that now I have plenty of time to be writing…that is, if I don't run into my characteristic writers' block.**

**Gypsy: I'll send you an e-mail and we can work a beta thing out J Thanks for sticking with the story.**

**Zan: Thanks for sticking by this as well! I'll probably be popping off an e-mail to you for detail-style ideas, what with the writer's block and all…**

**Anozira: Another faithful reviewer J. The mystery will be coming ;) I'm p. sure I aced the final, so yay for me!**

**Alright, without further delay, here's chapter four!**

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Holmes invited himself to one of Sabina's seats in the interim. Flopping down, he reread the article in an effort to glean more of the true meaning behind the jilted reporting. Holmes shook his head in disbelief. He always figured that people were warped (and unintelligent), but as a fledgling private detective newly off his first high profile case, he had never encountered such brutality. Up until now, he considered himself "jaded" (for lack of a better term), but he was wrong. And he hated being wrong.

Worse than being wrong was being in the dark. It was purely fluke that he happened across Sabina's work:

_One high profile case and Andrew landed himself in a plush, cosmopolitan apartment. He was barely old enough to be out on his own, yet his client (who remains unnamed for confidentiality's sake) decided to express his undying gratitude. As cream-colored pillowy carpeting almost enveloped his feet, he floated to the television remote and switched on his giant plasma screen. Larry King (the quintessential mad man, in Andrew's opinion) babbled incessantly about another raving lunatic whose writing catered to the dense English population. "Yes, because I care about teenaged sexual escapades," he murmured to himself._

_Just as Holmes was about to switch to something more thought provoking (cartoon network perhaps), a picture of an attractive young lady flashed on the screen and he stayed tuned. It wasn't the looks - he was completely immune to vanity - but the age was what struck him. That, paired with the information that she was a gritty murder mystery writer. _

_Miss What's-her-name on the television was an "up and comer" in the literary world. She was known by her grasp of hard reality and particularly warped plotlines. Apparently, the last novel featured a priest who decapitated his victims and stuck the heads on a post through the brain stem, right in the city square for the village to see. "That's not reality," Holmes scoffed. "What kind of a pervert would do that?"_

His words tasted horrible in his mouth as he ate them in Sabina's living room. A pervert had done exactly as was in Sabina's novel - murdered and placed the heads on pikes in front of a church. This was only the second murder, so the pattern was difficult to trace, but one thing was for certain: this was not original. Who better to know the story than the creator herself?

And what of the creator, Miss Sabina Picard? Just another fluke that she happened across him in the park, with her blonde hair twisted carelessly into a bun, then falling into delicate face-framing curls as she pulled the pen out and shook the locks behind her shoulders. Her playful honey eyes dancing, she chewed her lip as she sized him up that day. Holmes shook his head and dismissed the female from his head. Can't muddy the waters this early in a case. Not like his deductive powers were getting him anywhere thus far, he couldn't help but notice.

Sabina broke in on his almost self-loathing as she spoke from the bathroom doorway, leaning against it (for Queen and country, one must notice). "What can I do to help?"

Holmes rubbed his chin. "Funny you should ask…"

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**Yes, it was short and I really have no excuse. I was feeling like a hypocrite, though, b/c I rant on about how everyone needs to update their wonderful stories, while I leave my things laying around for years (literally).**

**Um, quick thing though: I know crap about England, if you can't tell, so…just thought I'd throw that out there. I know little about slang, landmarks, etc., so while I was planning on letting this take place in England, I'm thinking on switching it up to America. Thoughts?**


	5. Chapter 5

**Well, here's chapter 5. I'm too tired to give my shout outs, but you fine ppl. know who you are. And I heart you from the bottom of my…well, heart. This is short, probably one of the shortest yet, but I'm going to post it. HA!**

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While Andrew was deep in thought, Sabina tottered out of the restroom, all her strength sapped out. "Well," she said weakly. "That's a fine how-do-you-do."

Holmes merely nodded, clearly unconcerned with her petty "feelings" and other such nonsense. He had better things to worry about. "There are a lot of freaks out there who do a lot of freaky things. The killer would have found one fetish or another."

"You don't understand. I wrote that. _I_ wrote _that_. He got the idea from me; I'm responsible for this horror…" She collapsed into an armchair, rubbing her temples. At last, she looked him square in the eye. "So, again, what are we going to do about it?"

"I need to get inside the killer's head and in essence, you're his brain." Sabina winced at the reminder. "You know his motivations, his fears, all that is him. I have some connections in some…less reputable areas, so I'll work from there…" Holmes paced as he talked, ambling along as he collected his thoughts.

"So, let me get this straight: I stay safe at home, while you get to do all the dirty work?"

"More or less."

"No way. I'm coming with you. I only get to write these things - I never get to experience them. This time, I want some real details." Sabina tried to hide it, but there was no mistaking the twinkle in her eye. The sense of adventure overrode her sickening guilt. Fueled by the desperation for writing the next great novel, Sabina planned on jumping in headfirst. "I'm in deep enough as it is - I haven't much else to lose."

Holmes arched an eyebrow. "Except, perhaps, your life."

Sabina shrugged, her good nature returning. "You win some, you lose some. Most artists become famous once they're dead anyway."

He furrowed his eyebrows and gave her the "you're stupid" look. "But…oh never mind. Anyway, your death would reflect badly on me and I have neither the time nor energy to be playing nurse maid."

"Whatever! I'm the same age as you!"

"How do you know?"

"Probably the fact that your face is everywhere except a Wheaties box helps. C'mon, I promise I'll only speak when spoken to and spend the remainder of time writing." Sabina leaned forward in excitement. "I can be like your Watson!"

Andrew cracked a rare smile. Little did Sabina know of the heartbreaking loneliness - living alone, stake-outs, and everyone he spoke to seemed to run in fear. He was used to it - ever since childhood, his rare gifts of deduction made him an outcast. At this point in life, Holmes had learned to keep his mouth shut in order to make friends. Even so, he was never available for social engagements. After a time, his friends would tire of him and he was left alone again. All their thoughtless jabs struck underneath his callous façade. Would they stop if they only knew? "Watson, huh? If it worked for them, then why wouldn't it work now? Sure, come along."

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**There, now be happy, damnit.**  



	6. Chapter 6

Well, I'm feeling a bit off tonight, writing at a computer that isn't mine. Plus, there was a really great episode of House on tonight... In any case, thanks for staying with me! It'll totally be worth your while. Oh, and does anyone else absolutely hate this editor program? Driving me CRAZY! So, yeah, you'll have to ignore the annoying formatting job. Grrrrr...

He, the elusive "serial murderer", tightened the bands to his protective mask as he let the towels soak another round in the vat of bleach. Noxious fumes filled the air, lessening the risk of being caught. Correction: of anyone unprotected coming out alive. _A perfect crime_, he thought as he twirled the linens with a rod. _No evidence, no connections and I can flaunt my genius before the city, no, the world!_ He routinely watched the nightly news in satisfaction as the bags under the chief's eyes darkened and the police grew stubble. Haggard and worn, and not a centimeter closer to the truth than the previous day. "When will he strike again and how many more have to die before we catch this madman?" _Wouldn't you like to know_!

One once said that absolute power corrupts absolutely, but since when is intelligence a corruption? He grinned at his philosophical nature - must be another manifestation of his higher functionality. To dream up this serial… ah-hah, a glitch. He grit his teeth, blood rushed to his ears in anger and jealousy. How dare Sabina Picard take credit for this? His day in the sun shadowed by _her_ novel. There was only one way to keep her out of this: the "victims" of his genius were only focused on until something new caught the media's eye. Take out Sabina Picard, along a random person, and the media will be so focused on the mysterious death that Sabina just fades away. Then, he takes the stage, an unstoppable force in both murder and media coverage.

He hoisted the linens into a basin of clear water and was pleased to see the absence of the familiar rusty colored stains. No one would suspect that these had been soaked in blood just hours prior, that they had been a transport for a severed head and carried incriminating evidence. And that it's not over yet.

"I know virtually nothing of this man," Holmes muttered to himself as he polished off a coffee and poured another. "Or that he's a man, for that matter." The files lay strewn across his desk and while the department was operating under the assumption that the murderer was indeed male, Holmes knew better than to operate under any assumption. From all appearances, there was no conclusive evidence, except that the murders ended in the same grotesque display, pointing to the serial. Even so, there was no commonality among the victims. No apparent commonality, in any case.

This was quite easily the first time in Andrew Holmes' life that he had been stumped through and through. No clue, brain-dead, stumped. He banged his head on the desk, punctuating the syllables, "So. Un. Fair." This is a matter of life or death: every moment he spends dithering in a cesspool of ignorance is another opportunity for the murderer to do…whatever it is he is doing that allows him to evade the police.

Holmes jumped out of the chair and screamed to the sky. "Shouldn't I have a supernatural gift after all that!" No one should have to go through that torture without recompense - that night, he swore he would die, but the earth kept turning. He had always figured that God had given him a gift in return: the gift to catch criminals and spare victims pain. But now…now there are grieving families, traumatized children, and a weak and useless detective. Holmes collapsed into his chair and murmured, "Thanks a lot, 'God'."

_ No_, Sabina thought. _I'm not going to do it. I shouldn't even have idle chit-chat with this guy_.Sabina paced back and forth in front of the phone cradle. This was a dangerous game she was playing…In a burst of confidence, she lunged for the phone and dialed. "Hey BC, I was wondering if you could do me a couple favors…"

This is a bit longer and hopefully more satisfying than the previous chapters. Please leave a review - I love feedback. I'm sorry the mystery is so long in coming. I'm working it in, piece by tiny piece, but I'm sure I'm just being frustrating and difficult. It happens. Unfortunately for me, the next chapter is going to have to be done by hand, because I'm going on vacation and my battery would only last ¼ the trip. Damn!


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Is it just me or are people updating faster these days? Back in my day… I'm a dork! Big shout-out to Zan for the review - as I'm writing this, it's my only review. Kind of sad, really. I don't blame y'all, because I just read over chapter 6 and realized that I did a real poor editing job. Whoops. I'm excited for this next chapter, b/c it includes elements about which I NEVER get to write - usually b/c I never get this far. I know its accurate and that's the kind of satisfaction that money can't buy. Well, I should wrap this up, b/c knowing my style, the a/n is going to be longer than the actual story…

"So that's what a dead body looks like." Sabina squatted a mere inch away. "I've studied pictures, but never seen one in real life. Scratch that, I've never seen one three-dimensional." The cops at the scene sniggered at her naïveté.

Holmes rolled his eyes. Just last week every single one of them was puking in a bush, obscuring the possibility of finding a bit of evidence. "Yeah, but usually they have their heads." Holmes' gloved finger poked and prodded the corpse. "Body lies in the supine position, loss of blood makes signs of struggle inconclusive…which doesn't matter, because there was quite clearly foul play involved."

"Who you talking to there, buddy? Voices bothering you again?"

"Lesson one in crime scene investigation: bring a pocket recorder. That way, when I'm filling out my report, I'll catch everything…including my witty editorial." He gave a winning (read: cheesy) smile.

Sabina whipped out a mini notebook. "Why is it you seem so much happier at the site of a gruesome death?"

Holmes unceremoniously hefted the body over to examine the posterior. "I haven't changed, but my surroundings have. Comparatively, I'm giddy with delight, but at the disco, I'm not exactly dancing. Everything looks good next to a body with a severed head, which was, by the way, hacked off by a total amateur with a blunt-type object. Maybe a dull axe or a handsaw." Sabina just stared at him and he gestured at her notebook. "Why are you stopping? If you're going to write, then write! Wouldn't want to miss something - I might need your notes later."

Sabina scribbled furiously "I thought lesson one included a recorder?"

"What use is a chronicler if I can't use her chronicles?" When she looked offended, Holmes added, "Don't worry, I'll put both our names on the report."

"Good, I'll take what publicity I can. Paid by the word?"

"I knew this was a bad idea."

Holmes scowled at his surroundings, frightening a small child reading "Highlights". "Terribly sorry," though clearly he wasn't. "Carry on, then." The child hid behind the magazine and didn't dare look up again.

Piped-in "smooth jazz", elderly hacking a lung and the good doctor didn't understand why Holmes couldn't stand being in a waiting room. Watson made a good choice in being a doctor; he would have made a terrible detective. "Andrew Holmes?"

"Thank God," he breathed. Holmes followed the nurse to a more private setting. He figured that he wouldn't have to wait long - as soon as Watson sees "Holmes" on a chart, he'll have a fit of apoplexy and say, mid-stroke, "Send someone in!" One of Holmes' many addictions was bound to kill him, yet he was usually healthy. Sometimes healthier than Watson, which was always a good laugh. One would figure that if Holmes wanted a beer or a chat, he'd hit Watson up after his rotation, meaning that Holmes had, for the first time in his lucky existence, fallen ill.

"That's miles of bad road, buddy," Watson commented.

"Brilliant diagnosis! By the way, my thingy-bone hurts."

"Jeeze, someone missed his nap."

Holmes ran his fingers through his hair. "You're probably right. This case… I hate to admit it, but I'm stumped. No leads. I'm working around the clock and nothing for days!"

Watson, perched on a stool, nodded knowingly and rooted around in his lab coat. "I know exactly what you need." Watson pitched him a sample pack. "Take one at night and you won't feel a thing for a good eight hours. The next day, no heavy machinery, driving, blah-blah-blah." He leapt off the stool. "So, see you Thursday at the Watering Hole?"

Holmes furrowed his eyebrows and gave the "stink-eye". "You're up to something."

"I know paranoia is in your job description, but last I checked, I wasn't your murdering psychopath."

"Side-effects?"

"Erectile dysfunction and anal bleeding." After being fixed with the stare, "Headaches and nausea, but nothing much to write home about. Are we good now?"

Holmes smiled the "I-have-you-now-smile". "Your wife, Watson - how is the lovely lady?"

"She's fine since last I checked."

"Which was…?"

Watson looked defeated. "A week and a half ago."

"Trouble in paradise, then."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Neither do I - I'm terrible at relationships." Holmes made for the door. "See you Thursday and thanks for the drugs." An elderly woman on the opposite side of the door looked appalled, so Holmes let her know: "You are SO taking this out of context," and once he was down the hall, "Fricking hate hospitals."

A/N: That was fun - I love the whole crime scene business. Not terribly good w. the medical end, but I made sure to check that was I was saying actually made sense. I've kept to my promise of trying to lengthen chapters. Epiphany comes in the next chapter, so be prepared for actual mystery. Anyway, now is the time to review, so GET TO IT THEN!


	8. Chapter 8

**I HATE FORMATTING!**

**Zan: **You are awesome and are the recipient of 1000 brownie points!

**An:** LOL, I get lazy myself. Still, brownie points! But only 700. Sorry about the flow thing, but I'm having issues w. the formatting business. I have an idea on how to fix it this time around…

**Igbogal: **Wow, thanks! I took a bit from House for chapter 7, but the way I see it, House took from Sherlock Holmes. House, Holmes; Wilson,Watson; Moriarty…well, the writers weren't even trying by then! I can't believe House's shooter is named Moriarty…well, I'm off topic! Anyway, thanks for the lovely review!

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Andrew eyed the samples suspiciously, as though it were a living entity. "Couldn't I just mug myself with chloroform? Same thing, right?" Feet propped on the table, he read the pamphlet while keeping the sample at a safe distance. "If I'm not careful, you'll mug me. Wouldn't put it past those medical Frankensteins." He glanced at his watch and did the math: he'd have to take the pill in the near future if he wanted to wake up on time and considering the fact that he couldn't operate properly under the influences of exhaustion, the pros outweighed the cons. Andrew threw back the pill and flopped on the couch. His last conscious thought was, "I had better wake up tomorrow morning."

Next he knew, Andrew was exclaiming "Son of a bitch!" for no readily apparent reason. Then it hit him - literally. A solid object rammed itself into his stomach, leaving him breathless and gasping for air. Fighting the medication, he forced his eyes open and struggled to focus his vision. Two large, dark figures; one armed, the other adequately dangerous with his fists. "Who are you and what do you want!"

They snickered and the unarmed man noted, "Andrew Holmes, the famous detective wants us to explain to him!"

The other: "Heh, ironic."

Holmes, though a mean fighter, knew when he was outmatched. Two fully conscious mean verses a half-conscious one - terrible odds. "Take what you want and leave."

The men started toward him. "It's your life we want, Mr. Holmes."

"That'll be a problem, since I've come rather attached to it. I've had it my whole life."

"Smartass, this one. Cut him nose to navel!"

Holmes heard the click of a butterfly knife swinging open and knew he was done. His eyes were slowly adjusting, but the man had started for him and Holmes only had about fifteen seconds to formulate a plan. Holmes reached for the blanket and flung it in the air, buying himself the extra time to nail the attacker in the groin and slip in for a leg sweep. Surprised, the attacker fell like a ton of bricks and with a sharp whack to a pressure point on the wrist, the knife flew out of his hand and skidded across the floor. The other man was sharp and anticipated Holmes' moves. Playing on the Andrew's apparent blindness, the man pocketed the knife without being seen. He came from behind, and as Andrew whirled around, the man cracked him across the face. Holmes couldn't react fast enough as the man reached into his pocket, and in one deft move, carved a slash across Holmes' face.

Holmes let out a startled hiss. He thought the man had blinded him with the last slash, but he wiped the eye and realized blood was dripping into his vision. This discovery came too late, however. Heavy, quick footsteps meant that the men were escaping and there wasn't a whole lot he could do about it in his condition. He was losing blood quickly, so he grabbed a rag from the kitchenette, hopped into his car, and hoped that the adrenaline didn't wear off until he got to the emergency room.

Yet another late night for Doctor Watson. As a general practice doctor, Watson always figured that he would have a regular nine to five: ear infections and other mundane activities, but with a stack of charts in front of him, he started having doubts. Ten O'clock and he hadn't gotten a chance to start on them. Broken bones, the flu, and an inconveniently placed Lego - the ER was a hopping place earlier that evening and chronic understaffing had him on duty tonight.

Cup of coffee, loosened tie, lab coat…somewhere else and he finally got cracking on the laborious process. "A distraction. I would sell my soul for any distraction."

"Hey Watson, you busy?"

"Oh thank God, I was just wanting an excuse to stop charting." As he was finishing his thought on the paper, a drop of blood covered it, causing Watson to look up. "Holmes! What happened to you!"

Holmes was indeed a sight to be seen. A deep, bloodied gash on the right cheek and a smaller one over the eye, purple and blue contusions, and a badly mangled right fist. He was hunched over - most likely due to a punch to the stomach, though it could have been a kidney punch. "Hired a hooker. They get so feisty when you point our their herpes. Patch me up and I'll tell you along the way."

"Yeah, sure, follow me."

In exam room one, Holmes held an ice pack to his face as Watson stitched. "So you woke up to these guys hitting you?"

"Yeah and technically, this is your fault."

"Whatever."

"I was sleeping and the next thing I know, I'm being pummeled by Moron McHugepipes. I'm not even sure where else they got me. I just know that now everything hurts."

"I'm going to make sure there's no internal damage once I'm finished here." Watson stuck his tongue out in concentration.

"I'm fine." Holmes gritted his teeth and hissed in pain.

"Yeah? It'll be a lot less fun when you need to give a bloodied stool sample."

"Carry on, then."

"Any reason?"

"For bloody stool? I'd rather keep away from bowel movement conversation."

Watson broke concentration long enough to fix him with a glare. "For the beating."

He gave a tiny shrug, being careful of hurting himself. "No idea. I should call Sabina first thing tomorrow."

"Is she cute?"

Holmes rolled his eyes. "I tell you that I almost died tonight and you're worried about getting laid?"

"If I cared that much, I wouldn't have gotten married. And I was thinking of you. Maybe you and her…move that ice pack a second."

Andrew gave a dignified snort. "You have got to be kidding. I mean, sure she's cute - five foot six, probably about 125 pounds, blonde hair, blue eyes, proportionately built. But she's a writer and I'm a cop."

"Detective," Watson corrected.

"Right, detective. Still…."

"I've heard all your excuses before and I'm not going to let you be alone the rest of your life."

"There's no spark there. There's a big nothing."

Watson finished the last of his stitches and looked him square in the eye. "You don't allow yourself to feel. You can't love if you have this hardened cop attitude. You're a detective now - your line of work is safer. Give it a go. She says no and you haven't lost, but she says yes and you can at least have a bit of fun. Promise me you'll at least think about it."

"If it means that much to you, I guess I can THINK about it."

"It does. Now I'll get to that eyebrow, we'll check for other damages, then I'll bring you to my place and you can take the guest bedroom for the night."

Holmes arched an eyebrow. "And your wife won't mind?"

"Who knows? Hell, she'll deal. She'll probably run screaming at the sight of your face."

"Love the bedside manner."

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**A/N: I had originally intended to get further with this chapter, but I'm getting all anxious with it. I've broken the 1,000 word mark, so naturally I have to post. It just wouldn't be me, where it not for ridiculously short chapters. I've already decided this story needs a rewrite, so I'll be lengthening chapters in that phase, but that only comes once I finish. Which looks pretty close to never. On the upside, I know where chapter 9 is going to go and I rarely have a clue, so I'm making progress. Please review!**


	9. Chapter 9

"You did what?!" Dust flew up in a cloud of anger as she stomped a high heeled foot. The ancient floorboards groaned against the stress, while the dilapidated building seemed to sway in the wind.

"You told us not to kill him – job's done as far as I'm concerned."

"You caught him in the face. With a knife. What part of 'duff him up a little' did you not understand?! Aw, and now you're leaving evidence all over the place!"

The brute stepped back to look at the blood splotches he was dripping. "So pay me and let me get on out of here."

Pursing her ruby red lips, she jammed a wad of bills into the man's hand. "Half of that to your buddy." Once she was sure the hired help was out, she lit a cigarette and pulled out her Blackberry. "Hey BC – Job's done.

_At least I have a lead_, Andrew thought as he checked his appearance in the rear view mirror of his car. He scowled at the mangled sight. The bruising and swelling would subside, but that gash would leave an unprofessional scar – not exactly the sight to comfort law abiding citizens. He crawled out gingerly, favoring a broken rib – hurt like a bugger for being a minor fracture – and straightened his clothes for the millionth time. Luckily, he and Watson were roughly the same size, but Holmes never felt comfortable in another man's clothes. At least Watson was a snappy dresser. And at least the collar wasn't soaked with blood.

Sabina buzzed him in and ten minutes later, he was outside the door. "Andrew," he heard from behind the door. "What the hell took you so," and at the sight of him, "…never mind. What happened to your pretty mug?"

"Not a big fan of the new look?"

"Lovely. So I went to the bars last night and I got some information you might just appreciate."

"I'll take it, but please don't go out on your own again."

"Haven't we been over this," Sabina whined immaturely.

"I only agreed to letting you come with _me_."

"What is your problem?"

"You want to know my problem? Alright kid, it's story time…"

A/N: Sorry guys, had to do it like this. My installments have to be painfully short, so I thought I'd cut it off in the most inconvenient place I could. Just kidding – the real reason is because I don't have an attention span past 500 words (I'm a poet and a bit unaccustomed to fiction these days). In any case, I got a lovely reminder to get my arse in gear (thank you much!), so I, uh, did. Yeah. You know the drill – review button is at the bottom :3 3


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Sorry for leaving you all on a cliffhanger for about a year, but I've finally updated. I'm not sure that I've chosen the right style for telling a story, but we'll have to see. As usual, I don't ****quite**** know where I'm going after this, but I enjoy leaving the endings open – gives me creative license **** Please R&R.**

**I'm going back on my word and I'm publishing here AND at my blog (****http://shfanfiction. I figured that it was the right thing to do, considering that I haven't been around for a while… The next update will be blog ONLY, so please bookmark me! I promise that it'll be worth your while, especially if you comment there… In any case, please enjoy the latest installment.**

* * *

Without further delay, Holmes began his tale: "There's a private little island in the American Midwest – settled by Scandinavians, the island is obsessed by the sea. I had a little blue cottage, hidden in a personal forest, with a dock for my fishing boat. Sometimes, when I had witnessed a gruesome aftermath, I would take my boat out and fish. It didn't matter if I caught anything, but there was something about the soft 'whoosh' of the waves that calmed the tangled mess in my mind."

Holmes let a small smile play across his lips as he reminisced, disguising the tearful glimmer that began developing in the corners of his eyes. "And my wife, Jennifer, loved this cottage. She was a Midwestern girl and often longed for fresh air after the smog of London. Eventually, we moved to America, where I had my first job." When Sabina gave him a questioning glance, he added, "She was my high school sweetheart. She used to worry so much for my safety – and this was back in the days when I was a cop. She told me that one day, I'd get shot, especially if I didn't watch my smart mouth.

"And she was right – I was a smart ass. I was a brilliant young officer – scratch that, a **foolish** young officer. I thought that I could shoot my mouth off, just because I could see things that the others couldn't and solved crimes before the detectives themselves. Well one day, I caught a guy, said something dumb to him– I don't remember what exactly – and thought nothing of it. He was a pervert and a murderer anyway and I knew that he'd be locked up for a long time." As an explanation, he added sarcastically, "Selling homemade child pornography and murdering hookers is generally frowned upon these days."

"As the media would have it, my face made the front page of the news and I was actually **proud** of that. Proud!" Holmes clenched his jaw and smashed a bandaged fist against the door frame. A couple drops of blood splashed against Sabina's stoop as one of Holmes' hand wounds reopened. Sabina resisted the urge to re-bandage his hand and stayed silent while Holmes continued his story. "Jennifer clipped the article out and stuck it proudly in her scrapbook. 'It's for our children one day', she used to tell me with a playful smile."

Holmes swallowed hard. "I had seen some things that I had wanted to forget that day, so we scheduled a trip to the cottage. I was on the water for about a half an hour when I heard a loud crashing noise. I don't know if you've come across this, but for some reason, cops have this 'gut feeling' when it comes to danger – I had a sinking, sick sort of feeling at the pit of my stomach and I raced the boat to shore. I barely docked it, before I hit the deck running."

Holmes' speech came haltingly, as though he was forcing himself to relive a past that he had tried to forget. He clenched his fists; more droplets of blood splashed while Holmes remained oblivious to his corporeal pain. His eyes began filling and he averted his gaze, looking blankly into an unforgiving past. "Apparently, we weren't as secure as I had hoped. The pervert whom I arrested had a couple of unforgiving friends who decided that I was really bad for business. They fled the scene before I could get to my wife. She had been crocheting in the living room…some tiny shoe looking things I had never seen her make before and of all the colors to choose from, pink…they lay in a tiny heap next to her, soaking in her blood…I could never figure out what she was making, to tell you the truth…"

Sabina knew what she had been making, but suppressed a gasp. He didn't need to know that now; he wasn't ready for that information. Holmes took a deep, shuddering breath; his face resumed a stony composure and he looked Sabina square in the eye, in order to drive home the point of his story. "My own wife, Sabina. I allowed my own wife to die, all for some smart-assed bullshit." Sabina saw a hardened resolved in his clenched jaw and wild eyes, as Holmes lowered his voice: "I will **not** allow another innocent pay for my mistakes. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," Sabina managed to whisper.


End file.
